


Next to Godliness

by Lies_Unfurl



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Belly Kink, Blow Jobs, Crying, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dehumanization, Dirty Talk, Enemas, Frottage, HYDRA Trash Party, Humiliation, Hurt No Comfort, Inflation, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Showers, Torture, Touch-Starved, exercise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:28:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27661345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lies_Unfurl/pseuds/Lies_Unfurl
Summary: He’s done this almost a dozen times by now, and it gets hotter each session—due in no small part, he’s sure, to the fact that he makes the Asset take more every time. The other agents see this as a chore, a mildly gross but necessary task to complete before the Asset goes back in the freezer.Rumlow knows they think he’s kind of a sick fuck for volunteering for the duty, but it's not his problem they can't appreciate a work of art.(Rumlow cleans the Asset after a mission, inside and out.)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Brock Rumlow
Comments: 10
Kudos: 74





	Next to Godliness

**Author's Note:**

> As always, please heed the tags.

“He’s all yours,” says the tech, some weedy kid with a receding hairline and a nervous manner that Rumlow knows means he won’t last a year with HYDRA. No point learning his name. No point acknowledging him, either.

“Come on,” Rumlow says to the Asset. “Time to get cleaned up.”

The Asset blinks its big stupid eyes at him, glancing around like it thinks that maybe someone is going to contradict Rumlow. Like it thinks that someone might help it.

The others probably think that it’s just being slow because there’s still several hundred volts of extra electricity bouncing around in its brain. Rumlow knows better. The Asset remembers what’s coming. It always does. This period in-between the Chair and cryo, it doesn’t usually get wiped away. It’s easier, really, if the Asset knows the routine it follows.

That it’s supposed to follow, anyway.

“If I have to ask again, you’re walking there on your hands and knees.”

The Asset blinks a second time, but then stands up with a slowness that probably can actually be blamed on post-wipe muscle weakness. It sways, but remains on its feet.

It didn’t piss itself this time. That’s good. It’s always a pain in the ass to have to spray it down before Rumlow gets going. Rinsing it off—well, rinsing its outside off—is the last step before cryo. He’s not a fan of redundancy, or wasting time.

Rumlow turns and heads away from the Chair, hearing the Asset fall in line behind him.

The bathroom in this base is a good size, more of a locker room than anything. Jack already cleared it out for him when he set out the supplies, which is probably for the best. Rumlow doesn’t mind an audience, but Jack always goes on about the time he traumatized the new recruit that walked in on them a few years back, which wasn’t Rumlow’s fault in the first place, and also maybe you shouldn’t join HYDRA if you’ve got some kind of moral objection to having a little bit of fun?

Whatever. Not his problem. And if anyone needs to piss in the next hour, they can either hold it or go to one of the other floors.

“You know how this goes,” he says to the Asset, not bothering to look at it as he begins preparing the first enema. “Strip, then on your knees.”

The click of buttons lets him know that it’s obeying. It usually does, made docile after having its brain deep-fried, but there have been exceptions. He’s glad this isn’t one of them.

It doesn’t take long to get the soapy mixture prepared. This one was only a half-gallon, mostly for the actual purpose of making sure the Asset was empty before it got popsicled.

Rumlow doesn’t pretend to know the scientific reason for why the Asset needs to be completely cleaned out prior to entering the cryo chamber. He also doesn’t pretend to care. All that matters to him is the process. And it’s a process that he’s very, very good at.

“All set?” he asks, turning around. It’s a rhetorical question, of course—the Asset knows better than to speak out of turn.

It’s also rhetorical because of course the Asset is ready, completely naked and on the floor, ass up, arms folded below. Its limp cock and stringy hair hang forward.

“Relax,” Rumlow says, kneeling down and jamming the catheter into its ass. He doesn’t bother wasting lube on it.

The Asset flinches at the initial intrusion, which, Christ, the stupid thing ought to be used to it by now, given that this has been standard operating procedure since long before Rumlow came onboard. But it manages to relax its muscles as he inflates the balloon nozzle.

Then he opens the clamp and lets the water rush in. No point drawing it out. The first one isn’t nearly as fun as the second.

The Asset draws in a sharp breath as it starts to fill up. Rumlow slaps its ass.

“Stop whining. Fifteen minutes.”

Once all the water is in, he sets the timer on his phone and sits on the floor across from the Asset.

He has a good view, though there really isn’t much to see yet, at least not compared to what there will be soon. But this is necessary.

The Asset’s body is all fucked up from having the metal arm welded onto it. The muscles around its stomach and abdomen are basically always tensed up tight so it can balance counter to the heavy weight on its left side. Practically speaking, that means it probably hurts constantly—some of his colleagues think that the Asset can’t feel pain anymore, but they’re the ones that spend the least time around it.

But he doesn’t care much about the pain. He just cares about making the Asset take as much as he wants it to. And for that, he needs it to be stretched out first.

Rumlow watches idly as the Asset’s belly spasms once, twice. It bites the inside of its mouth hard, almost definitely drawing blood, but it doesn’t make a sound. The sight goes straight to his cock.

He reaches out and presses down against its stomach. Beneath the hardness of its muscles, there’s still a decent amount of give. No matter. He’ll take care of that soon enough.

Under his hand, he feels the flutter of the Asset’s guts cramping. It arches its back up before regaining its senses a second later and forcing its spine back into the downwards slope.

Rumlow jabs down against its abdomen. The sloshing of liquid is perceptible against his fingertips. “The fuck’s gotten into you? If you’re already struggling now, you’re gonna have a real bad time when we get to round two.”

The Asset does not reply, though its stomach shudders. Rumlow grins and sits back, squeezing his dick through his pants.

His phone buzzes with a text message. He glances down. “Aww, that’s sweet,” he says aloud. “Our fearless leader noticed I wasn’t with the rest of the team for our post-mission burger run. Wants to know if I’m okay.”

He speaks as he types his reply. “‘All good,’” he says, omitting the “Cap” that he puts at the text’s end from his narration. “‘Just cleaning up and turning in early.’”

His phone makes a swooshing sound as the message sends. “Christ, if he knew what I was actually up to, he’d probably have a heart attack.”

The Asset doesn’t answer.

“Maybe he’d join in,” Rumlow muses. “Bet you’d like that, huh? Another person watching you get all filled up?”

Still, the Asset doesn’t answer. Good. That’s a positive sign that the wipe worked just fine; all its programming is just as it should be.

Ten minutes of dicking around on his phone later, the alarm goes off. Rumlow stands and stretches.

“Empty yourself out, then same position.”

The Asset clambers to its feet, its usual grace lacking, and stumbles into one of the toilet stalls, empty enema bag still hanging between its legs. Fuck, that’s hot.

“Don’t fuck around in there,” he calls as he bends down to untie his boots and kick them off. His pants go next; he keeps his boxers for now. Then the boots go back on, because he’s not stepping barefoot on a bathroom floor; that’s fucking gross.

The next one doesn’t take long at all to prepare: it’s just water straight from the tap. Cold, but that’s not _really_ his fault; the base doesn’t get much in the way of hot water, and the other guys would have his hide if they knew he wasted such a precious resource.

He’d thought about doing ice water, but the post-mission brief with Cap had gone so long he’d barely had time to make it back to the other base, with the other operative their fearless leader knew nothing about. So this would have to do.

When he turns back around, the Asset has returned to its previous position, folded with its ass up. Its head is down, almost pressed to the bathroom floor, but through the greasy strands of its hair he can just make out its eyes watching the now-full bag with what he thinks is trepidation in them.

He should punish it for staring out of turn, but its fear makes him giddy. “What are you looking at?”

Its eyes snap back to the floor.

Rumlow grins and walks up to it. He rubs up and down its spine, nice and gentle. The shiver that ripples through its body sends a corresponding jolt of arousal straight to his groin.

“Relax.”

He bends forward and presses against its abdomen. The muscles feel at least somewhat loose from the starter. Whether or not it’s enough… well, that’s not his problem, is it?

Rumlow stands back up and starts feeding the end of the nozzle into its ass. This plug is bigger than the first, but it’s been loosened up enough that there’s still no point wasting good lube on it. “It isn’t even two gallons. You’ll be fine.”

It doesn’t react to that. Fair enough.

It also doesn’t flinch when he starts the water, because he’s a stand-up kinda guy and makes the stream go nice and slow at first. That way, it can get used to the temperature, and to the overall intrusion.

But not too used to it. He waits until it’s got about two quarts in, the same amount as the first one, and then opens up the valve.

Its hips jerk down instinctively. Rumlow steps on its ankle, presses his foot down in warning. He wouldn’t actually do any damage, not when it’s about to go into cryo, but it’s too stupid to know that.

Sure enough, it forces its ass back in the air, though its thighs tremble as it does.

“Attaboy,” says Rumlow. He tightens the clamp just a bit, just to make it last longer, makes sure that the enema bag is secure on its stand, and steps to the side to admire the view.

Christ, he loves this. The hard, tense muscles across its abdomen being slowly forced outwards to accommodate the relentless flow of the water. The way the Asset can’t stop flinching and twitching, like it wants to curl up and hold itself.

He bends forward and presses his hand against its belly. It trembles beneath his palm, and that hardens his dick, of course it does, but what really makes his blood run south is having it swell up against his touch: watching it grow bigger, feeling the flow of the water even through its thick obliques.

A normal person almost definitely couldn’t take this much, not without days of preparation, and maybe not at all. But the Asset isn’t a person, and it wouldn’t be a normal one if it were.

This position makes its stomach hang down. It already looks like the Asset swallowed a watermelon whole, and there’s still almost half a bag to go.

Rumlow slips his hand to the lowest curve of its belly and pushes up; it’s probably his imagination, but he thinks he can hear the slosh as he does. The Asset whimpers, but doesn’t try to get away from his touch. Where would it go?

“Chin up.” He shakes the bulge. It doesn’t jiggle, not exactly; it’s too firm already, but it’s a near thing. “You’ve still got a ways to go.”

He’s done this almost a dozen times by now, and it gets hotter each session—due in no small part, he’s sure, to the fact that he makes the Asset take more every time. The other agents see this as a chore, a mildly gross but necessary task to complete before the Asset goes back in the freezer.

Rumlow knows they think he’s kind of a sick fuck for volunteering for the duty, but it's not his problem they can't appreciate a work of art.

By the time the bag is empty, the Asset’s stomach is so big it’s inches away from touching the floor. They’re hitting “overdue with triplets” territory here, and Rumlow’s dick is so hard he’s kinda worried he’ll come just from the brief friction he gets as he pulls his boxers down.

He unclips the catheter, leaving just the plug in the Asset’s hole.

“Stand.”

The Asset doesn’t move. Its shoulders are shaking, but if it’s crying, it’s doing so silently.

He kicks its stomach with the steel toe of his boot. It’s not hard enough to really hurt it. Still, the Asset cries out as the distension shifts obscenely, like an overfull water balloon seconds away from bursting.

(It isn’t going to burst, of course. That’s not his kink, and anyway, Pierce would have his hide if he caused any lasting damage. Still an apt comparison, though.)

“You know what, if you don’t want to get up, then don’t.” He smirks, crossing his arms as he leans back against the wall. “Fifteen push-ups. Now.”

The Asset looks up at him, and yeah, it’s crying—not full-on sobbing (yet), but there are tears in its eyes and a few have obviously splashed down its cheeks. It licks its lips, like it wants to speak.

“Every word out of your mouth is another five. C’mon, Soldier.”

It’s almost disappointing when, instead of protesting, it slowly pushes up on its hands and stretches its legs out behind it. It’s shaking all over now, arms and legs and swollen midsection alike.

“I want to see you go all the way down,” Rumlow says. “Don’t try to pussy out on me. And you better be counting out loud.”

The Asset offers no affirmative. Instead, it just slowly lowers itself to the ground.

Its elbows aren’t nearly all the way out when its stomach touches the floor. It hesitates for a fraction of a second, then forces its body down all the way, splaying out its belly against the white tiles. Then it’s back up to the starting position.

“One,” it says. Its voice is steady, which is is impressive given the circumstances. Rumlow decides not to punish it for its moment of hesitation, or for the way it’s clearly leaning all its weight on the metal arm. He’s a nice guy like that.

It makes it through the first six okay. Things get rocky on seven: it’s in the middle of pushing up from the floor when a cramp seizes its body. Its stomach visibly ripples, muscles contracting as its guts try desperately to keep up with the shifting water inside of them.

“You fall, you start over,” Rumlow reminds it as the Asset cries out, back arching. Its belly keeps spasming, and its legs are shaking as if it’s being electrocuted (and boy, does Rumlow know what that looks like).

It sniffs and nods once, putting even more weight onto the metal arm. Even that isn’t still, plates shifting under the strain or in distress.

But it works. The Asset gets its bearings enough to make it back up and rasp out, “Seven,” and then it makes it through the rest without incident. Unless you count the near-constant cramps that quake beneath its skin, but hey, those are to be expected.

“Well done, Soldier,” Rumlow says after it hits fifteen. He pitches his voice all low and gentle, the tone that, when it’s not in so much discomfort, will make the Asset lean towards you, with eyes just a bit wider than usual, like it can’t believe your kind words are really meant for it.

He strokes his cock a couple of times, then reaches down and pulls the Asset up to its feet.

Its eyes look all hazy, and it’s staring past him. He snaps his fingers right in front of its nose and jabs his finger into its exposed bellybutton.

The Asset jumps and tries to focus on him. Its right hand hovers in the air for a second, like it wants to wrap its arm around its convex middle, but it knows it’s not allowed to touch itself without permission. The hand falls down to its side. Its stupid eyes meet his, then skitter away as it remembers that prolonged eye contact is strictly forbidden unless otherwise ordered.

“You’re not checking out on me, are you?” asks Rumlow. He runs his hands up and down the obscene bulge, then digs his fingers into the soft skin at its very edge. It makes a small, high-pitched noise in the back of its throat. Another cramp wracks its guts.

“You know, exercise can really help make you feel better.” He steps back, not trying to hide his grin. “Gimme twenty jumping-jacks.”

Forbidden or not, the Asset’s eyes snap up to meet his. Its mouth gapes open for a second, before it licks its lips again and says, quietly, “Please. Please don’t make me.”

Rumlow has to reach down and squeeze his dick because he almost comes right then and there. When he’s certain he’s got himself under control, he reaches out and gently cups the Asset’s face. The Asset leans into his touch, eyes pleading with him.

“You ask so pretty,” Rumlow murmurs. It closes its eyes as he runs his thumb over its cheek.

But it opens them quickly enough, gagging on air when he slaps its belly with as much force as he can muster through his open palm. “But you know begging’s not allowed unless I ask for it. So make that twenty-five.”

With tears streaming down its face, the Asset complies.

As soon as it hits twenty-five, before its middle has even begun to stop shaking, it falls to its hands and knees. It retches, but nothing comes up.

It’s fucking nasty, is what it is, but absolutely nothing besides an act of God could possibly make Rumlow any less aroused than he is from the sight of the Asset performing calisthenics, its stomach shifting up and down as it jumped, forcing itself to continue even as it became absolutely wrecked by the cramps that captured its churning guts. Christ, he oughta do this somewhere with a treadmill next time. That might be even hotter, making it run fast as it can with its distended belly swaying out in front of it…

“You’re lucky I want you on your knees.” He gets right up in front of it. “Hands behind your back.”

It takes a moment for the Asset to balance itself on just its knees. Having its stomach so large really fucks with its center of gravity, which is already fucked because of the fifty-pound metal arm grafted onto its left side.

As soon as it’s steady, though, it opens its mouth.

“That’s right, you know you want this.” He shoves his cock right in. It doesn’t gag—that was trained out of it long before Rumlow got recruited; probably even before he was born.

It sucks as he thrusts in and out, eyes focused somewhere behind him. It’s still shaking, but that’s fine; the vibrations are kind of hot.

When his dick is good and wet, Rumlow pulls out. Not without reluctance—the Asset’s as good a cocksucker as it is an assassin, and it’s the best assassin in the world.

But it’s just not as hot when he has to peer past his own balls in order to see his handiwork. Views like this don’t come along every day, and he’ll be damned if he’s going to waste it.

Rumlow shoves the Asset down on its back and straddles his legs. The Asset’s cock lies limp below him. He doesn’t even consider getting it off; not now, not when he’s too focused on his own pleasure.

“Fuck,” he hisses as he starts rutting against the hard roundness of the Asset’s belly. “Fuck, look at you. You like this, huh? You like being all filled up?”

It doesn’t answer.

Rumlow pushes down on its stomach as hard as he can. The Asset bucks beneath him and cries out, and fuck, he can feel its insides spasming down below his cock, Jesus, it’s writhing beneath him, crying openly, sobs wracking its chest just like cramps wrack its abdomen.

“Tell me you like it,” Rumlow demands, and it howls back, “I like it, I do, please, I love it, please, please,” and if it has anything specific in mind that it’s asking for, it can’t manage to articulate what that is.

“That’s right,” Rumlow says. He changes his rhythm so that instead of just getting friction from sliding against the surface of its stomach, he’s also stabbing down into the bulge every few thrusts. “That’s right, you love this. You want to be filled up like this all the time?”

“Yes,” sobs the Asset.

“Bet you wish it weren’t just water.” He leans on one hand for balance, presses the other against the roundest part, feeling how the liquid froths just beneath the surface. “I bet if we got all of HYDRA to come have a go at you, we could stuff you up so good with come, you’d be even bigger than this, huh? You want that? You want HYDRA to fill your insides up good?”

“Yes, please, yes, I do.” Its flesh hand flies up and presses against its belly as its insides contract with a particularly wrenching force.

“Tell me,” Rumlow demands, shoving aside the hand it tries to use to soothe the pain away, and thrusting his cock as fast as he can against the spasming surface beneath him. “Tell me what it is you want.”

“I want HYDRA to fuck me,” it gasps, “I want you to fill me up with your come, please, fill me up until I’m swollen tight and I can’t hold anymore, please, please—”

Rumlow misses the rest of the sentence as he shoots off. His orgasm hits him so hard he thinks he might actually black out for a second.

When he comes to, he’s resting more of his weight than he’d like to admit on the Asset, and God, it’s still talking.

“—fuck me until I’m big, so I’m full of HYDRA’s come, please, all of you, inside me, please, until my stomach’s full—”

“Okay, okay, I get it.” Rumlow lurches to his feet and stares down. His come drips pearly white down the round surface of the Asset’s stretched stomach. “You fucking love being HYDRA’s slut, huh?”

The Asset sobs and curls up, drawing its legs as close to its chest as it can—which isn’t very close at all—and wrapping its arms around its midsection.

“Hey, none of that. You know that shit isn’t allowed.” Rumlow kicks at an exposed patch of stretched-out skin none too gently. The Asset responds with a garbled whimper, but forces itself to straighten out. Its stomach lies heavy before it as it digs its fingers into its thighs to keep from trying to hold itself.

Rumlow grabs a piece of toilet paper and wipes the head of his dick off. “C’mon, get up. Empty yourself out and get in the showers. You know how this goes. You’re almost clean.”

This time, the Asset doesn’t even try to stand. It crawls into the stall, dragging itself with its metal arm.

Rumlow doesn’t watch as it pulls the plug out, but as he gets dressed he hears the rush of water and the sob of relief that follows. He rolls his eyes. It’s a good thing it’s about to go back in cryo. It’s starting to get dramatic.

The Asset comes out on two shaky legs. It carefully places the plug with the enema bag and hobbles into the shower. It turns the water on itself—it’s allowed to, as long as it doesn’t try to get hot water—and scrubs its skin with the rough cloth and chemical-smelling soap that Rumlow thrusts at it.

When it gets out, Rumlow will towel it off himself. It’s not allowed to do that on its own because it has a tendency to linger in the folds of the fabric. No matter how rough or threadbare the towel is, it always tries to sneak a moment to hide its face away, or to hold it against its body like some kind of pathetic shield. Even when Rumlow is the one calling the shots, it’ll sometimes leans into his hand as he dries its hair or runs the cloth down its neck, like it just can’t get enough of his touch.

Rumlow crosses his arms and waits as it finishes cleaning itself. Its eyes are red and watery. With the water streaming down over it, he can’t tell if it’s still crying or not.

**Author's Note:**

> because I'm horrid at writing hurt without comfort, there *might* be a second part to this that gets Bucky some relief -- no guarantees, but it's not impossible!
> 
> comments are extremely appreciated, and you can find me on tumblr as [lies-unfurl](https://lies-unfurl.tumblr.com/).


End file.
